


Kiss (best served over tequila)

by chasing_givenchy



Series: Tutoring Mlle. Cosette [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Body Shots, Dysfunctional Relationships, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Secret Relationship, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_givenchy/pseuds/chasing_givenchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Any glare I wear is purely because Marius is pissing me off," said Courfeyrac. "No man should be born with a face like a woobie, and not use it to his advantage. That's just wrong."</p><p>"Marius left thirty minutes ago, and you're still glaring," Enjolras pointed out calmly.</p><p>"I'm fine," said Courfeyrac, consciously trying to rearrange his face. It nearly worked, but then he caught sight of Jehan leaning over the bar, passing a tall Cuba Libre to a muscular blond man, who grinned appreciatively. "I'm <i>fine</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss (best served over tequila)

**Author's Note:**

> Extra ♥ ♥ ♥ this time for [fakeplasticlily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeplasticlily), who pulled off the unimaginable: fixed my Jehan characterisation and (for the first time ever) came up with a better title than I did ;D :*

_January 3_

 

Courfeyrac was reconsidering being friends with Marius Pontmercy, or at least going bar-hopping with him. While he was happy to play wing-man, he was less happy to watch women be ensnared by the confused hangdog aura that Marius permanently emitted. It could be the only reason why they plied him with drinks all night and drowned him in sympathy, before dragging him away into a cab with them.

   Having sworn off drinking since the last disastrous New Year's Eve party (during which he did some questionable things with a friend he was tactfully avoiding since then, out of sheer awkwardness), Courfeyrac often overheard snippets like:

   " _You're_ M. Gillenormand's grandson? Poor baby."

   "Another drink for my friend, please! He _really_ needs one to help him cope with his life's angst…"

   "Oh, dear. You're flatmates with that Courfeyrac, aren't you? You comforted my friend after he dumped her. You're _such_ a nice guy, by the way, my name is—"

   Courfeyrac coped by shrinking further into the shadows where he wouldn't be recognised, and watched venomously while a surprised and mildly incredulous Marius was led off by beautiful women who would probably try to sleep with him even though they were _sober_.

   "It's your fault," Enjolras told him indifferently, the one time Courfeyrac insisted les amis accompany him to a bar to witness this phenomenon for themselves. (Grantaire had been momentarily shocked, before rubbing his hands in glee, having discovered the perfect trick to get free drinks, and Éponine had excused herself quickly, looking furious.)

   "How is it my fault that he remains practically virginal despite everyone's best attempts to deflower him?" growled Courfeyrac, already regretting Enjolras's presence. "These women should just give up, and focus their attentions on a more suitable candidate."

   "Namely, you?"

   "Exactly, me."

   Enjolras sighed, and tapped the edge of his car keys against the bar top. Grantaire was already sidling up to a brunette in leopard print, pretending he was straight and straight out of _Oliver Twist_. (She frowned and got up and left.) "It's your fault because all evening you sit around with a glare on your face, and still expect credulous women to fawn over you."

   "What? Any glare I wear is purely because Marius is pissing me off. No man should be born with a face like a woobie, and not use it to his advantage. That's just wrong."

   "Marius left thirty minutes ago, and you're still glaring. The bartender tried to avoid asking you if something was wrong."

   "I'm fine," said Courfeyrac, consciously trying to rearrange his face. It nearly worked, but then he caught sight of Jehan leaning over the bar, passing a tall Cuba Libre to a muscular blond man, who grinned appreciatively. The next time he looked in their direction Jehan was stroking the stranger's face, fingers running tentatively over golden stubble. "I'm _fine_."

   "Really? Well, I agree," purred a sultry voice in his ear. "And I'm sure you wouldn't mind buying me a drink?"

   He half-turned to see a very convincing Mila Kunis döppelganger leaning against the bar, peering up at him from underneath lowered lashes. "Of course." Enjolras clearly knew nothing. _Screw them all_.

 

_January 6_

 

(Courfeyrac 22:30) Shit shit shit

(Courfeyrac 22:32) Shotglass

(Courfeyrac 22:33) Left it in the microwave

(Courfeyrac 22:34) FML left the shogtglass inf the mcirowave

 

Jehan woke up to the incessant beeping of incoming texts in the dark, and fumbled for his phone. The list of drunken texts just kept growing by the minute, panic levels rising. Jehan didn't even bother asking why the shotglass (of vodka apparently, yikes) would be near the microwave in the first place, but it was safe to assume that Grantaire and Bahorel were involved.

   Sighing, he quickly typed, _Dw im on it_ , and started hunting for his car keys and his shoes. He resisted the urge to ~~stalk~~ pinpoint either Courfeyrac or Marius's location on Foursquare, and just drove down to their building. Being in possession of the spare key certainly helped matters.

   (There was actually a completely innocent explanation for why Jehan would possess a key. It wasn't because it would be easier to slip in and out of the flat for secret flings with Courfeyrac, but mostly because Courfeyrac tended to forget his keys on the coffee table and often needed help re-entering his own flat. Jehan had been entrusted with the spare key because he looked ingenuous, helpful, and the most law-abiding of their set of friends.)

   It was with that ingenuous, helpful, law-abiding mindset that Jehan had raced down to Courfeyrac's, imagination overtaken with awful images of the shotglass exploding in the microwave and the empty flat burning down in a vodka-induced blaze.

   Well, then, imagine his shock when he unlocked the door only to find someone was already inside. And he wasn't from the Fire Department. Marius looked up from the couch, laptop on his knees, and smiled uncertainly.

   "Um, you picked the wrong flatmate to ambush with your midnight rendezvous. He went out with Grantaire a while ago."

   Jehan struggled to explain why he had a key to their flat, or what he was doing barging in like a trained burglar at this hour. "I, uh, thought the place was empty." Yes, burgling was _definitely_ not on his mind after a declaration like that. "Er, Courfeyrac was worried he'd left something expensive and flammable in the microwave and I thought I should check up on him," he went on, not wanting to complete the impression that he broke into his friends' flats for fun.

   Marius just _looked_ at him, lips pressed together in a suppressed smile. "It's all fine, I checked. I'm sure Courfeyrac was genuinely concerned about burning the house down."

   "He was," said Jehan with conviction. "He seemed to be. Via text, that is. I'm pretty sure he actually _was_ worried. While drunk. Drunk people's concerns are different from yours and mine."

   The confusing thing was that Marius just kept on smiling, and then transferred his attention back to the episode of _Suits_ playing to the laptop, without a word. In a deliberate show of courtesy, Jehan cheerfully waved goodbye (not everyone ignored their friends and smiled secretively), and once he was alone out in the landing, immediately looked up Courfeyrac's current location on Foursquare. Apparently, it was some club.

   He then did the perfectly normal thing and drove down there to check on Courfeyrac. That was _not_ the very definition of stalking.

   A part of Jehan's brain that fiercely treasured his long-standing friendship with Courfeyrac, insisted that those texts merited some concern. It was obviously an important issue, or else Courfeyrac wouldn't have been quite so strung-up over it. After all, if he was just looking for an excuse to text Jehan, _help I left vodka in the microwave_ was a pretty awful icebreaker.

 

"Jehan! Hel- _lo_."

   He swallowed hard, and contemplated the nearest exits of the club. Courfeyrac was completely drunk, squashed on a pleather couch between Grantaire and an unknown woman of the luxurious brunette and legs-that-went-on-forever persuasion. The loud, crazy techno music thumped overhead, bouncing off walls and hitting the ceiling. Grantaire had his hand wrapped around a lethal-looking tequila already, and Courfeyrac was in the middle of being coaxed to take a sip of the brunette's dirty martini when he spotted Jehan.

   Was it too late to turn and run? Because he had absolutely no idea what he was doing here. Was he here to ask Courfeyrac about the drunken texts? Because he had checked, no one's flat was burning down. Was he here to play designated driver? He couldn't be, because Courfeyrac was clearly having too good a time to leave.

   Or was he here to join them? Because he _could_ : Courfeyrac looked delighted to see him (an innocent soul to corrupt), and even Grantaire was smirking. Of course, he probably remembered what had happened the last time Jehan had been drunk: a simple countdown-to-midnight kiss at the New Year's Eve party had turned into a full-blown, prolonged, we're-not-complaining but-maybe-we-should make-out session. With his friend. With his friend, Courfeyrac, who was now happily waving him over as if he had no fears of the situation repeating itself.

   As if the previous situation had never happened.

   _You're being paranoid_ , Jehan told himself firmly, avoiding the mocking glint in Grantaire's eye. Jehan knew he had a reputation for being a tactile person, maybe a little too free with the genial proclamations of fraternal love when he was happy, but Courfeyrac would have fit right in at a hippie commune with his love-thy-neighbour please-'em-and-leave-'em attitude.

   And that was why they were even friends: love lasted as long as you shared it.

  _You're being ridiculous_ , he told himself, a little harsher, and returned Courfeyrac's greeting with as much enthusiasm as he had received. There was much hugging, introductions, professions of delight to meet the brunette ("Musichetta,") and another round of drinks.

   "What'll you have? Light beer?" asked Courfeyrac. His mouth turned down at the suggestion of poor drinking fare, but he'd noticed the car keys Jehan was holding. "Give me those, you aren't going anywhere."

   Jehan let him take the keys, pressing Courfeyrac's hand gratefully as he did. "I'll pass on the beer, but thank you." And on an inspired whim, he added, "Marius sent me to be your designated driver. Just in case."

   Courfeyrac mock-scowled and declined another drink for himself out of solidarity. Grantaire had no such qualms, and urged Musichetta to follow his example.

   "Nice shirt," she said, smirking only just a little as she looked straight at Jehan's chest, currently covered in a Tweety-printed tee. In his defence, he had left home in a hurry. "It's very ironic."

   "I like your hair," he replied, with no irony and all genuineness. Her hand involuntarily flew to the complicated French bubble braid get-up she had done her hair up in, and gave him something like a real smile.

   "Thanks. Did it myself." Musichetta beamed and turned in her seat, giving Jehan room to lean forward and run his fingertips over her lush dark hair. He was completely obvious to the incredulous, gagging looks that Grantaire and Courfeyrac were exchanging, and although Musichetta saw it, she just flipped them off behind Jehan's back.

   She warmed up to him considerably after that. He learned that she was going to be a medical student, and she was into astrology. Grantaire had obligingly budged over to make room on the couch, so now Jehan was squashed in with Courfeyrac's elbow in his ribs, his head knocking against Courfeyrac's ear whenever he tried to move.

   Eventually, Musichetta got tired of sitting around, and dragged Grantaire off to dance with her, both of them clutching their drinks. She suddenly found him to more interesting, now that he mentioned that he was friends with Joly, that cute "wannabe a doctor" whom she knew. Left alone to their own devices, Jehan found himself revealing the true series of events that had brought him here. It did not reflect well on either him or Courfeyrac that he had been genuinely alarmed by all those messages, but there was something like indulgence in Courfeyrac's chuckle.

   "You hopped in your car and came down all the way here, just to check on me?"

   Despite the bad lighting, Jehan was extremely aware of Courfeyrac's gaze trained on him. He swallowed, and wished he could reach for a drink. "Don't rub in the stupidity of it," he muttered, and Courfeyrac just laughed.

   "Hey. Define 'stupid'."

   Jehan was suddenly aware that he had been absently playing with Courfeyrac's sleeve all this while, Courfeyrac's bicep firm under his touch. He realised this now because he had never been more aware of the fact that Courfeyrac's hand was on his knee, slender fingers splayed up his thigh. His breath was coming up harder, slower, in an effort to control his racing pulse. He stared at the hand, trying to hold together his thoughts, which were now flying in every direction, a wild cacophony clamouring to get out of his head.

   "Um," he said, and his mouth was dry. "'Stupid' is what you're about to do, and I wish you would."

   He could _feel_ the warmth of Courfeyrac's smile spreading through him as Courfeyrac's hand cupped his face, tilting up his chin. Jehan pushed against him, welcoming the taste of his halfway sober kiss.

*

_January 10_

 

" _Damn it_ ," grunted Jehan when an errant set of flailing limbs pushed him out of bed, waking him up with a hard thud on the floor. And winced, when he realised that was maybe a bit too loud for the relative silence of the flat Courfeyrac shared with Marius. Keeping quiet was not his strong suit, not when Courfeyrac was just that selfish with the sheets, and maybe that was Reason #453 Why a Secret Fling Wasn't Such a Fantastic Idea After All.

   "Shh," mumbled Courfeyrac sleepily, turning over on his side, completely indifferent to the loss of Jehan's presence. He didn't even seem to register Jehan's mad scramble for their carelessly discarded clothes. It was seven a.m., and Jehan had a very small window of opportunity to escape undetected.

   "Hey," he said, nudging Courfeyrac. "I'm leaving. See you in class."

   No reply. Certainly no goodbye. Jehan tried not to feel cheap and used, and shoved his feet into his shoes, getting the pair mixed up.

   And then, with time that could only be divinely attuned, the fire alarm went off.

   The loud stream of alarmed curses being emitted from the kitchen (i.e. the sound of Marius attempting to extinguish his efforts at making breakfast) was the perfect cover to dive out the first-storey window and shimmy down the drainpipe. Jehan consoled himself with the thought that while he had never been kissed goodbye, not once ever since this whole thing started, hey, at least he wasn't the one waking up in a burning flat.

 

"Wow, you two look like hell," commented Combeferre when Courfeyrac and Marius, both glaring sullenly, made an appearance later that day at their university.

   "Stop."

   "Don't even ask."

   "Is gratuitous mocking allowed?" asked Grantaire, smiling wider under their twin glares.

   "Wow, you don't look like you slept very well last night," put in Jehan innocently, and Joly yelped when someone's attempt at an under-the-table kick went unfortunately wide.

 

_January 14_

 

And it all came crashing down because Courfeyrac couldn't keep his libido in check long enough to not be a troll. That was Jehan's summarisation of the situation, and he preferred to think of it as moreorless accurate. When normal people try to play footsy under the table, they usually know with whom they're playing footsy. When _trolls_ do it, they get the wrong person. So, naturally, being at the receiving end of completely unsolicited advances had led Marius to deduce that Jehan and Courfeyrac were going at it like rabbits.

   In retrospect, Jehan should have been more careful about the bread crumbs of clothes he tended to leave everywhere he went.

 

"Hey," said Jehan, shifting so that he could be closer to the tiny camera built into his laptop. It had the inevitable effect of distorting his face, but Coufeyrac didn't particularly mind. "I heard you guys talking about it, by the way. Talking about us. Earlier. In the kitchen."

   "Yeah?" Courfeyrac's smile didn't budge. "How much?"

   "Enough. Like the part where you told Marius" _i_ _t only works because no one knows_ "that _there won't be anything to tell_ in a couple of weeks. That makes sense, us having an expiration date. Besides, it means that we get to see where it goes with other people, right?"

   Static crackled over the speakers covering up what could have been a suddenly sharp intake of breath. Courfeyrac had been sprawled back on his bed seconds earlier, and now he sat up a little straighter. "Other people?"

   Jehan shrugged. "Well, it's not like the sex was meant to be exclusive. Didn't we already have this conversation? It was your damn idea in the first place."

   "Yeah, but."

   "But?" prompted Jehan, wishing Courfeyrac would just stop with the fake-out and come out with it.

   "I was drunk at the time I suggested that. I don't think it counts."

   Jehan frowned into the screen. "Why not? You flirt incessantly. You'd take them back to bed with you, if they ever responded to your advances."

   Courfeyrac huffed, half-laughing. "Yeah, well, I'm different."

   "Right." Jehan's tone had gone considerably cooler, and there was no way Courfeyrac hadn't noticed, but he remained blissfully unconcerned nonetheless. "Right," said Jehan again. "Because you're the Casanova, and I'm — I'm — go ahead, Courfeyrac, fill the blanks. What am I? The one who can't get anyone to respond to _my_ advances? The dateless one who should be _thrilled_ you picked me? Or did you have something more flattering in mind?"

   It didn't faze Courfeyrac. The breezy, cheerful expression remained fixed in place. "You're," he said, and stopped. "Because when you do it, everyone knows it doesn't mean anything. You flirt with everyone. It's not even flirting in your private dictionary, what you do. It's probably _Jean Prouvaire_ speak for _being friendly_."

   "Maybe it's something you should try once in a while, then. Might win you more friends."

   "Yeah, maybe," agreed Courfeyrac. "After all, you're not indispensable."

   Jehan clicked off, sickened.

 

_February 19_

 

In retrospect, Courfeyrac should have seen it coming when Jehan got himself a boyfriend.

   His 'fight' (more like a truncated difficult conversation conducted via Skype) with Jehan had left him with the bitter conclusion that he was somehow not good enough to be at the centre of Jean Prouvaire's world, which was fine. There were plenty of other people who _did_ find him good enough, and he preferred their company anyway.

   Cosette Fauchelevent was one of them, and it was a shame they didn't never ran into each other except on odd days of the week when she dropped by their flat. For the record, watching her babble away in stiff, badly conjugated German with Marius was worse than watching gorgeous women zero in on his flatmate as if they were stranded on Venus and he was George Clooney. Because, for the record, Marius was no Clooney, and if there was an equally apt and devastatingly analogy to be made about German-speakers, Courfeyrac would have applied that one too.

   "Why can't Jehan just distract you with sex?" complained Marius one day when his only window of opportunity with Cosette devolved into a battle of bad pick-up lines between Courfeyrac and Cosette. (By this point, it was a tie. _Baby, I'm no Fred Flintstone, but I could make your bed rock_ was getting some stiff competition from _If you're Peter Pan, I could be your happy thought_.)

   Predictably, Courfeyrac's expression shut down and closed off at the mention of that name. "That might be because Jehan's dating someone, isn't he?"

   Cosette looked reproachfully at Marius, who tried to look convincingly apologetic. The only reason Cosette sympathised was because she was a virtual stranger to their group, and was thus mercifully spared of all the typical drama.

   "Richard," supplied Marius, because it was no use pretending otherwise. 'Richard' happened to be big, blond, studying Finance, had run into Jehan a couple of times at the same bar, and he was basically perfect. Even Grantaire liked him, which was odd because Richard got along swimmingly with Enjolras.

  "I think he can be a bit full of himself," said Cosette loyally, and Courfeyrac shot her grateful smile that was obviously meant to play on her emotional soft spot for sensitive men. "I mean, do you hear him, getting all modest whenever he talks about all the homeless people he helps?"

   Courfeyrac scowled, and Marius squeezed her hand under the table.

 

The problem was that Richard actually turned out to be pretty hard to dislike.

   "You and Jean," said Courfeyrac, plying the unsuspecting bastard with drinks, and deliberately using Jehan's full name because a nickname had to be _earned_. "You're dating, what?"

   Richard effortlessly knocked back a shot without wincing, and tapped for another. "I would like to be. I would really, really like for us to be dating."

 

"Margaritas," announced Courfeyrac, as if this was a new and novel idea.

   Jehan blinked, unsure when a casual party at Grantaire's to celebrate nothing at all, had wound up at the point where Courfeyrac was salting the line of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. He met the cocky challenge in Courfeyrac's gaze, and tipped the tequila shot down his throat. He held Courfeyrac's hand in place, licking the stripe of salt off his skin, and neither complained that it wasn't how a margarita was mixed.

   "What if the salt wasn't on my hand?" asked Courfeyrac, and the party dimmed and disappeared around them, and it was like New Year's Eve all over again in Jehan's head. Courfeyrac's brutal words crashed against the inside of the skull ( _when you do it, it doesn't mean anything_ ) but he couldn't imagine lifting someone else's shirt over their head just to prove a point. Courfeyrac was lithe and arched back easily over the table, and there was a surprised holler of encouragement that ran around the room. The flat of Courfeyrac's stomach was warm and hard under Jehan's palm, and perversely, it was Courfeyrac's lips he found before he downed the second shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Richard is no one we know, but he is vaguely based on "Rich" from _Community_ , (which definitely makes Courfeyrac "Jeff.")


End file.
